


Loads of Boyfriends

by telemachus



Series: Chasing Cars [4]
Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: Dating, M/M, Or not, Settling, Stuart can't say, Vince never says anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-30 09:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8527186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: "I've had loads of Boyfriends..."Vince, protesting too much, to Cameron, showing off in front of Nathan.Chapter titles are Hazel's all too deadly summaries of the poor chaps.





	1. "You Didn't Like Him..."

“Yeah, alright,” Vince has run out of excuses, of reasons why he can’t go for a meal, see a film, why this day is busy, that evening booked, “alright. Tuesday, eight o’clock.”

Puts the phone down and turns.

“Well?” Hazel can’t hold back any longer, “Tuesday – where are you going – what are you doing? That was that Simon, wasn’t it? Where’s he taking you?”

Vince shrugs, 

“Just meet at Via Fossa, have a drink, see how it goes. He’ll probably be bored by nine. What am I going to say to him? I don’t even know what he likes, what he’s into.”

“He likes you, love,” Hazel flaps her hand, dismissing the concern, “he must, he didn’t give up. Blimey, though, you don’t half play hard to get. What’s that all about? Don’t know where you get it from.”

Vince sighs, looks away,

“I wasn’t playing. I don’t know him, I don’t want to spend time with him. I’d rather just – “ stops, frowns.

“What? Sit at home in front of one of your videos, waiting for prince bloody charming to turn up? It’s not going to happen, life isn't like that. You want something, you have to get out there and look for it,” sometimes Hazel wonders how she produced someone so – calm. Patient.

“Yeah,” Vince’s eyes slide away for a moment, and he doesn’t let himself touch the bracelet. Three weeks it’s been now, three weeks, and not a single letter, postcard, nothing. Not that he really expected anything different. Stuart isn't one to sit and answer letters. It doesn’t matter. Only another nine and a half to go, then he’ll be back. Still, one thing is bothering him, “How did he know my phone number? I’ve barely even spoken to him.”

Hazel turns away, 

“Oh, haven’t you?” casually, “he’s a nice lad. I keep telling you. I’ve chatted to him quite a bit.”

Walks through to the kitchen.

“Mu-um –“ but what’s the use? Vince stares after her, shaking his head slowly. Supposes he should just be grateful his mum isn't trying to set him up with girls.

 

 

 

 

 

Wednesday morning Hazel makes the effort to be up, bright and early, clattering about the kitchen before Vince comes downstairs.

Downstairs, not in through the front door, she registers. Oh well. 

“How was it?” she flicks the kettle, “toast? Cereal? There’s the last of that white, or Shreddies. Pick up some more today, there’s a love. Did you have a nice evening? Were you out late – I never heard you come in?”

“Toast,” and Vince starts rattling about looking for something to go on toast – doesn’t let himself think about a box packed with easy, quick food for a new student – knows he won’t get away without some kind of answer, “it was alright. Nice, yeah. Just had a couple of drinks, chatted. I wasn’t that late in. ‘bout half-eleven.”

“And?” Hazel waits until he’s turned round again, gestures, “come on, was he nice? Are you seeing him again? Did he – you – you know?”

Vince half-rolls his eyes,

“Mu-um. Yes, he was nice. You know he’s nice, you keep telling me he’s nice. I’m seeing him tomorrow. Just a drink again. And no. Nothing happened,” pauses, takes his mug, “thanks,” drinks, “he probably doesn’t even fancy me. Just thought – I don’t know – what did you say to him? He spent half the evening talking to other people.”

Hazel frowns.

“Well, we both did. He’s got a lot of friends. Nice blokes. Mostly. We had a laugh. It was alright. Made a change,” Vince starts on his toast, “but I don’t think he fancies me.”

“Did he kiss you? Did he try to? Did you notice – you know what you can be like?”

Thanks mum.

“I’m off now, got to run, I’ll be late,” and Vince heads for the door, checking keys, wallet, grabs his jacket, feet into shoes, opens the door, half-turns, “yes. He did kiss me. But only good-night. ‘Bye mum.”

Walks down the street.

Yes, he kissed me good-night. Waited with me until the bus came.

Talked – and listened – to me all evening, even when other men were with us.

He was nice.

Really nice.

When he kissed me, he wanted more, but he didn’t ask. Said he wanted to see me again. Meant it, I think.

Never had anyone be like that. And it was nice, really.

So why don’t I feel happier?

 

 

 

 

“You out tonight then, love?” Hazel prides herself on her tact, her discretion – the way Vince is dressed, of course he’s off out, “I’m meeting Mandy, that lot, later – might buy your mum a drink eh?”

Vince shrugs, looks into his wallet, mentally does some hasty sums, wracks his brain for the date, when is the last Friday of the month, must be soon, surely, before he answers, “Doubt it. Can lend you a tenner, but – not going down the Street. Not tonight.”

“I wouldn’t take your money, love, you work hard enough for it. Out with them from work is it? Or mates from school?”

As if, Vince thinks, when did I ever have mates from school to go drinking with? As for work, well, honestly mum, if I was going for a drink after work, I wouldn’t come home first, would I? You know, you must know, but you want me to say it. He sighs,

“Meeting Simon. At least, kind of, going over to his flat. He’s got Alien, and Aliens, on video, wide-screen, should be really great, I’ve not seen them, not properly without advert breaks,” bites his lip, hating the necessity of saying it, terrified of the response, “I s’pose – they’re quite long – might be easier to – don’t want to be on the last bus, full of nutters –“

Hazel smiles.

“You stay over then. Just be sensible Vinnie; have you got condoms?”

“Mu-um, for – yes. Not that we – I – god, you’re the one always telling me what a nice man he is –“

She sniffs, “yes, well, that’s as may be. He’s not the one got anything to worry about, is he? Knows you’re safe. Go on, off you go, don’t bother about the films, ‘bout time you gave him value for all these evenings out.”

“Mu-um – “

“Near two months you’ve been teasing the poor lad. Go on, just go.”

Vince shrugs again, it’s been not quite six weeks, six weeks of drinks in the pub, a couple of trips to the cinema and pizza after, that’s all. Not months of high expense, and besides, apart from the first evening there’s been plenty of snogging, and – well – Simon isn't doing so badly, in his opinion, out of the exchange. This won’t be his first visit to Simon’s flat, nor, for that matter, to Simon’s bed. He doesn’t tell his mum everything, despite what she seems to think.

All the same, he knows perfectly well that Simon is hoping for – how did he put it – the full fuck – and he knows too that he can’t really put it off much longer.

And why does he want to?

Simon is nice. Really nice. 

He is.

He’s funny, affectionate, generous; interested in Vince’s enthusiasms, even when he doesn’t share them, well, kind of interested, tolerant at least; always seems pleased to see Vince; he’s pleasant-looking, not the most attractive man out there but then if he were, he would be, well, someone else; he has a proper job; speaks to his parents at least once a week even though they live too far away to meet up often – Vince isn't quite sure where Southwold is, but it certainly isn't near Manchester; keeps his flat clean but not too tidy; he can cook, better than Vince anyway, better than Hazel for that matter; and he kisses like a wet-dream – only not Vince’s wet-dream.

Nine weeks now and no letter.

But that isn't the point. Simon is nice.

Really he is.

 

 

 

 

Four in the morning, and Vince tells himself that again. Simon is nice. This evening was – it was nice.

Maybe it wasn’t quite – well, nothing is ever how you imagine it, not really, is it?

But it was nice.

Watching a film, having someone who is as easily absorbed as you are, holding his arm in mock-terror and him shouting ‘don’t go back for the sodding cat’ as loudly and urgently as you, laughing at yourselves at the end, sharing food and a drink so easily – that’s worth a lot, isn't it? 

Someone – Simon – being honest and straightforward enough to say, “Red toothbrush ok for you? Thought I might as well get the two-pack,” the assumption he’ll be here often is nice – isn't it? 

Sex being – not some ‘will we, won’t we’ ‘does he want to’ ‘have I misread the signs’ set of nervous approaches and retreats, not the roller-coaster of hope and fear and doubt and elation that Stuart always made it sound – but just the next thing to happen – that’s good, isn't it?

And as for – well – turns out he didn’t need to be so worried. It was all fine. Better than fine, really. Not what he’d expected at all, Simon being happy to – wanting him to – well, like that – somehow it wasn’t what he’d thought Simon wanted, but – fine. 

Getting up again afterwards, borrowing a dressing-gown, watching another film, going back to bed together, all that – isn't that the way it’s meant to be? Relaxed, easy, affectionate the way Simon’s hand plays in his hair, the way Simon pulls him close on the sofa. Isn't that all the way he always thought it was supposed to be?

So why, now, is he awake, staring at the ceiling while Simon sleeps?

Why doesn’t he feel – Vince doesn’t know exactly – but, he searches for the words, why doesn’t he feel like a proper man at last? Why doesn’t he feel – oh god – why doesn’t he feel the way he is supposed to feel? 

Happy, triumphant, exhilarated, exhausted even. The way Stuart was when he came round in the middle of the night three years ago, bragging and chuffed – the way Stuart always has been ever since. That’s how you’re meant to feel, so what’s wrong with Vince?

Why does he just feel – lonely?

Like he won not the big prize on the pools, just a nice couple of hundred, but there’s no-one to spend the money with, and that takes all the fun out of it.

 

 

 

 

Hazel doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. She doesn’t mean to smirk, and look pleased, because she isn't given to tormenting her beloved son, she really isn't, but – Simon is a lovely man, and he clearly cares very much about Vince, even if there haven’t been words and declarations yet.

All the same, she isn't stupid. Vince isn't as happy as she’d hoped, expected. 

And he’s still wearing that bracelet.

December now, and as far as she knows, there’s been no letter, no phonecall, nothing all term. In her own head, she wonders if ‘that bloody Stuart’ will turn up soon, and what he’ll make of Simon-the-boyfriend. Whether he’ll finally put Vince out of his misery, one way or the other, whether he’ll care.

 

 

 

 

Five days before Christmas, they’re in the pub, and Hazel is, as ever, grateful to have the kind of son who’s prepared to have a drink in public with his mum and her friends, grateful to have the kind of son’s-boyfriend who’s prepared to join them, when Stuart walks in, graceful, beautiful as ever, she’ll give him that.

It’s been months, this university term seems to have lasted forever, but he’s here now, and he smiles, and Vince feels alive. For the first time since that awful day in September, he’s alive, and it doesn’t matter, no letters, no phonecalls, nothing, but it doesn’t matter now. Now there’s words to be spoken, and maybe it should be anger and disinterest, but Vince just isn't capable of it, and Stuart has stories to tell, and complaints about his family, his room, his course, and all of it is perfect again. 

Simon just sits there, watching, waiting.

He’s not stupid, he knew from the outset that there was something unfinished there – how not, he’s seen them around together for the last three years, he’s heard Vince talk – but by the same token, he’s seen the way Stuart is. One shag after another, and no repeats. Plenty of people have a crush they grow out of when something better, something real, comes along. No harm in it. 

Then it’s Dantes, and dancing together, and Stuart’s laughing, and the rhythm is perfect, and he leans forward and there’s a pill on his tongue and Vince sucks it off trying not to think what he’s doing, only it feels so good, like it always does, and he – he doesn’t pull away, it’s his tongue in Vince’s mouth, and oh god, oh god Stuart, please, and then he pulls back, and hands clasped, pulling Vince along, just like he does, and into the loos, and – does he really – he wants – oh god, yes, it’s happening at last – and sucking him off in a cubicle isn’t what Vince has dreamed of but it’ll do – please Stuart, yes, even just that – only then they’re in the queue, 

“Christ, had to drag you in here to get you away from him. So, that’s the boyfriend is it? Simon? Not bad, Vince, not bad. If you like older men. Older, boring men. Still, you’ll be able to settle down, do the dishes, stop all this going out, that’s what you want, isn't it, you pathetic bastard?” and Vince gasps, gasps that Stuart can be so cruel, though why, he doesn’t know, it’s not as if it’s a surprise, not really, “just don’t kid yourself, Vince, don’t buy into that – if I top, I’m not as queer as he is – crap.”

Vince blinks. That just isn't - he never - where the hell did Stuart get that from?

“I read the letters, you twat, of course I read them,” read them and – you couldn’t wait, could you? Couldn’t just have some fun, enjoy life. You had to get a bloody boyfriend. You stupid twat, “Kept meaning to write back, but you know how it is, well, no, you don’t, but – people to do, things to see – so, are you queer, or aren’t you, Vince?”

and – Stuart pulls away, Stuart catches someone else’s eye – and he isn’t that wonderful, but just more wonderful enough – and – and Stuart laughs, there’s a pat on the hand, an ‘off you go, go and make simple Simon happy’ – and – but I would, I would – I wanted – only you don’t, you don’t want me – you never will – and Stuart is gone, the door closing, and Vince leans against the wall.

I’m not crying, not here, not in the middle of everyone. I’m not crying. Boys don’t cry.

Vince pulls himself together, and thanks god for Simon.

Because when he gets back out, there Simon is, standing at the bar with a drink waiting for him, and Vince smiles, and he smiles, and then,

“Let’s go, let’s just – go,” Vince drains the glass.

 

 

 

Four in the morning, he’s awake again, lying staring at the ceiling, aching and sore, but – it was nice, mostly, it was, much better than he’d feared. Felt good, really good, and Simon seemed pleased, pleased that he wanted to, pleased that he closed his eyes in ecstasy, clung on tight. Vince wonders if he ought to feel bad about that, about not being wholly honest, but well, Simon is happy so what does it matter? After all, for all he knows, Simon thinks about some porn star – because really, who’d be that excited about his ordinary body?

Anyway. Now he can lie here, wait for morning, listen to Simon’s breathing, know that he, he himself, Vincent Tyler, is queer. Completely, utterly, irrevocably. Not that he ever doubted himself. Knowing too that he’s done it, gone all the way, shagged and been shagged, taken it up the arse. With his boyfriend. With Simon. Not that he had any illusions of – of fairytales, dreams, longings coming true. That isn't the way the world works, and Vince knows that. He’s always known that; who better, growing up aware of the cost of everything and the gap between what he’d like, what Hazel would have liked to give and what he could have?

Dreams, imaginings, don’t come true. Soft-focus kisses, words that would in all honesty be so embarrassing to say or hear – gestures that would make anyone who knows him laugh – that isn't the way he’d really want things. Time to grow up a bit, he tells himself, time to live in the real world. The Doctor isn't going to come by and sweep you off into adventure – prince charming isn't going to ride up on his white horse – and as for the other dream, the hope, well. You always knew that would never be.

Simon’s nice, caring, kind. A bit dull, Vince adds in his own head, and flinches away from the thought. 

He’s off to see his parents for Christmas, day after tomorrow, back for New Year, says he’ll tell them about Vince, maybe they can go together another time, says they can do something special for New Year’s Eve together. And that’s nice, isn't it?

Being held like this, it is nice, isn't it? Not being alone all night.

Isn't this the point of it all?

Only – it still feels as though there is something missing. Vince still feels he’s waiting for the punchline.

 

 

 

 

Valentine’s Day. Not a day Vince ever really, truthfully, expected to mean anything to him. After all, isn't all that hearts and flowers bullshit just for girls, for lesbians?

That’s what Stuart always says, anyway.

He’s written a couple of times this term already, and part of Vince knows it doesn’t really help, it only makes the ache worse, makes it impossible to take off the bracelet, step away from the whole thing, really concentrate on Simon, on making it work – but part of him can’t help but be just so happy that Stuart bothered.

Still, today isn't about Stuart. It’s about Simon, and Vince, and dinner; not out, Simon isn't any more keen on public display than Vince himself, so – dinner at the flat, and for once, not in front of a film, though there’s a Blockbusters case – two – by the television, for later. Now though, now Simon is fiddling about making coffee – that’s one thing that annoys Vince, the obsession with fancy coffee, as though there’s anything wrong with instant – while Vince clears the table, puts dishes to soak. He’d wash up, happy enough, but generally they leave it, do it tomorrow morning quickly, let them drain all day. Seems a bit lax, really, but – it’s Simon’s flat, they do it Simon’s way.

He’s thinking this when Simon suddenly says,

“I wanted to talk to you, Vince. Properly. Only – I don’t know what you’re going to say so I’ve been putting it off all evening. But. Well. The lease on this flat is up for renewal soon. And I know they’re going to put the rent up. So. It doesn’t really make sense,” he stops, takes a breath, still staring at the percolater, “not when I can afford to borrow, pay the deposit. So. I’m thinking about a house. Buying. And the thing is, I know, I know you don’t have savings. But – well – the way things are – we’d have to wait – another couple of years – just ‘til you’re twenty-one to make it official – but – I was thinking. We could – you could – help me look. Pick somewhere you’d be happy too. Move in, even, just – we couldn’t put your name on the mortgage yet. If you like.”

Vince doesn’t know what to say. It’s just – not even been something he’d thought about, not hinted at – and the mention of his age – you don’t often hear about people getting in trouble for it, not round here, not really, but – well – the thought of Simon – god, it doesn’t bear thinking of, and somehow that panic, that responsibility, that Simon is, really, risking quite a lot for him – that gets in the way of what to answer.

“Oh my god, I – Simon – yeah, um, good idea, only, maybe – well – I don’t quite –“

Simon is used to Vince by now.

“It’s ok, you don’t have to say anything. Just – think about it. Talk to Hazel. I’ll pick up some details, let you have a look, I’ve been finding out what I can afford on my own, better to not overstretch, it’s not like we need room for kids, is it? But – Hazel’ld probably like a bit of space of her own, one of these days; she’s a lovely lady, your mum, be nice for her to be able to take her blokes back home, I reckon.”

Vince doesn’t really want to think about that.

“So, think about it, yeah?” Vince nods, “Come on, leave those, come and have your coffee, see what I found to watch. Predator, you’ve not seen that, have you? Thought, seeing as how much you liked Alien, this might be your sort of thing,” and there’s a look that Vince knows means – remember the first time we watched Alien, what happened afterwards? – before Simon adds, “god though, imagine, well, imagine the creature in that meeting the thing in this – that’d be a fantastic film.”

Later, on the sofa, Simon pulls Vince close, snogs him at the end of the film, eager for bed, and Vince knows this is the way Valentine’s is supposed to be. Romantic dinner in – or at least, affectionate, friendly dinner; a proposal – or close enough, surely; guaranteed sex.

It’s nice.

So why doesn’t he feel more?

 

 

 

 

“I don’t understand you, Vincent, I really don’t,” Hazel sounds tired, and Vince just sits, silent, staring at the kitchen table, letting the words wash over him, “Simon’s nice, he’s well-off, he’s got a good job, you tell me he’s buying his own house – wants you to move in with him – prepared to pay – he’s good-looking, he’s not got any kind of nasty reputation,” and trust his mother to know that, “you said yourself he was a good kisser, good in bed,” no, I said it was fine, just – fine – and you heard what you wanted to hear, “so what are you playing at, dropping him? Poor sod, he really likes you, Vince, and you’ve hurt him.”

Vince shrugs.

“Vinnie, Vinnie, I didn’t bring you up to be like this. Why would you do this? He’s a nice man, really nice –“

And something snaps.

“If he’s so bloody nice, you shag him, you move in with him –“ Vince stops himself, “sorry mum. But – yes, I know – I know all those things. I tried, alright? Really, I tried, but – d’you remember Barry?”

Hazel sits down, cradles her mug though it must be lukewarm at best, nods, 

“Barry, Barry Keefe. God, I haven’t thought of him in years.”

“No, I don’t suppose you have. Saw him the other day, he popped into Harlo’s. Had a chat. He always does, always has a word. He’s nice. He was nice then, he’s nice now. I liked him, he liked me. He really liked you. You said he was nice, nice to spend time with, you never had a row with him, he wasn’t like – that bastard – never raised his fist to us – but you didn’t marry him, did you?”

Hazel sighs,

“Times are love, I wish I had. He still with – whatshername – Jackie?” Vince nods, “yes, well. I didn’t want to settle. But well – look at me – when was the last time I had a man like that interested?”

Vince frowns, shrugs,

“But – thing is – I know what you mean, I do, mum, but – if I promise you – I’ll settle one day, when – I don’t know – when I’m older – thirty maybe, that’s old for gay men Stuart says – but – for now – I don’t want just nice. I don’t want to settle. I want – isn't there supposed to be more than that? I don’t know. But – shouldn’t there be like – the One? Isn't it worth waiting? For a bit?”

Hazel is silent. Thirty-six, thirty-seven next birthday, son grown up, ready to leave home – nice, companionable, is looking a bit more appealing to her these days, but – he has a point.

The phone rings, and relieved to end the conversation Vince goes to answer it.

“Stuart! Yes, are you? When? Fantastic –“ he kicks the door shut, buying privacy, but not before she has seen his face.

Oh love. Oh Vinnie. He’s not your One, and I’m beginning to think he never will be. And if you keep on hoping, you’ll lose every chance at anything else.

But what can she say?

Nice, kind Simon never made Vince light up like that, and he never would.

 

 

.


	2. "......He Didn't Like You...."

Hazel is sitting, slumped, at the kitchen table, listlessly stirring the tea in front of her, wondering when she can start making phonecalls, wondering at what point she can admit there is something wrong.

Because it’s gone ten in the morning, and Vince isn't home. Hasn’t phoned. Didn’t leave a message with anyone last night, at the bar, or anywhere.

He was out, she knows he was, saw him go out looking – well, looking hopeful, is probably the best way to describe it. Looking like a young man hoping for some fun. And that’s probably where he is, what he’s doing, she knows that.

Only – it’s not like Vince not to phone, or tell her, or somehow let her know he’s not going to be home for breakfast. Not when she doesn’t know who he’s likely to be with – not since the days of Simon, nearly four years ago.

And at the back of her mind, always, are the horror stories. Except right now, they’re at the front of her mind, jumping up and down with placards, clamouring for attention. 

Your fault, all of it, that nasty little voice she so rarely listens to tells her. Your fault, brought him up wrong, didn’t you, must have, staying out all night, going off with strangers – and now look what’s happened to him.

Not that she knows what’s happened, and, she reminds herself, it’s probably nothing.

Looks at the phone again, wonders if she dares phone Stuart.

As though Stuart will know where Vince is, what he’s been up to, she tells herself, cynical, Stuart was out last night, Stuart has probably barely woken up yet, Stuart is far more likely any night to come to harm, the number of strangers he’s taken home. But then, however much she likes Stuart, she doesn’t care, right now, she doesn’t care at all whether he is safe or not. Only whether Vince is.

But Stuart isn't the kind of best friend who would know.

Looks at the clock again, wonders.

Picks up the phone, sighs, puts it down.

Stirs the cold tea.

Front door squeaks, and she looks up. 

Vince, hoping against hope to get up the stairs, to change, to wash, to – to get this ridiculous grin off his face, to manage to cover up the marks on his neck, sighs as she barrels into the hall.

“Vincent Tyler, where the fuck have you been? Do you know what time it is, how worried I’ve been, where – oh look at you,” she changes pace mid-flow, “oh Vincie, who – what – come on then, tell me, was it as good as you – are you – are you and he – oh Vincie.”

Vince flushes, or rather, Vince would flush further were it possible. As it is, he simply bites his lip, still grinning, and then,

“Sorry mum. It was great. Really, really good – sorry. You don’t – well. Anyway. No, really, I’m sorry, I just – I didn’t see the time this morning. I should have – only I didn’t – well, I didn’t see you after – oh mum, I can’t – anyway, I need to go and get changed, I’m supposed to be at work at midday. Better get a move on if I’m going to get the bus. Unless the bike’s fixed – you wouldn’t give me a lift, would you? Please?”

Hazel can’t help but be tempted, very, very tempted, to make a joke there, but best not. Vince can be a bit shy, sometimes.

“Yes,” she says, simply, instead, “but you should have told me, love,” and as he ducks his head, apologising again, she waves him up the stairs, “mind, I don’t see why he couldn’t have given you a lift in, I’d’ve made him a cup of tea while he waited –“

Vince pauses half-way up the stairs,

“Really? Didn’t think you’d want me bringing some bloke you’d never met home – next time maybe. There’s going to be a next time,” and he continues, hurrying, “oh my god, will you look at the time, yeah, Darren – he’s called Darren – I’m seeing him tomorrow night.”

Hazel stares after him.

Oh.

Darren, is it?

Well.

Now.

There’s a turn up for the books.

 

 

 

“So you’re Stuart. Oh, I’ve heard all about you, mate,” Darren pauses, and Stuart raises an eyebrow, tempted, so tempted, to claim he has heard nothing at all about you – mate – but it wouldn’t be true, and it would be an embarrassment to be caught out in such a pathetic lie. One thing no-one could ever believe is a claim that Vince has failed to talk about the new boyfriend. He simply looks, cold and uninterested, as Darren continues, “the magnificent Stuart. Didn’t think you’d be wearing jewellery though. Bit – camp – isn't it? Doesn’t quite fit the image.”

Stuart knew he wore rings and a necklace for a reason.

He didn’t know it was purely to annoy stupid little tossers like this one, but there you are.

Looks at Vince from the corner of his eye even as he responds, sees the blink of hurt, the almost hidden dip of shoulders, the brush of hand over bracelet.

“Don’t need an image – mate. More of a – reputation,” and then swings away, eye-contact, fabulous, “right, that’s my night sorted. Have fun Vince, and – Damien?”

Walks off, leaving the happy couple to it.

Twat.

That tosser isn't worth five minutes of his time.

Jesus, Vince, he thinks as he makes his way through the crowd, he’s not nice, he’s not rich, and he isn't half as attractive as he thinks he is. What the fuck is wrong with you?

 

 

 

Two in the morning, and Vince is awake.

Not staring at the ceiling, not worrying, not thinking anything at all beyond – please, oh my god, yes, don’t stop, yes, more, please, oh god, oh god, oh god.

Panting, desperate to get his breath back, exhausted, dazed.

Because this isn't the way life is, not for Vince Tyler. Night after night, mornings too, daytime when there’s chance – someone wanting him over and over. Someone who is, frankly, bloody gorgeous. 

Not perfect, not all his dreams come true, but – better than he ever thought he’d have.

“You want to shower first or second?”

Not the words you hope to hear, not really, but then it seems a long while since Vince learnt that the romance a pathetic part of him still dreams of is, apparently, as alien to most of the men he knows – all of the men who fancy him – as, well, as the Doctor is to Earth. They’ve heard of it, they know what it is, but it’s just a strange custom, makes no sense to them.

Apparently.

Or maybe, he thinks, listening to washing noises, maybe it’s more that he simply isn't the type of man to provoke extravagant declarations and gestures.

After all, men do ridiculous, over the top, completely mad things to get Stuart to notice them twice, so it isn't merely that he knows the wrong sort of men.

Darren comes back into the room, towelling off,

“Go on, wash, I need to get some sleep,” and Vince startles properly awake, heads for the shower himself, still thinking.

Darren isn't all his dreams come true – he’s a bit too tall, for one thing – yet all the same, things are good.

Sex is good.

If he let himself, Vince would be embarrassed by just how good the sex is – how not-quite-so-good it’s been before. Ok, so Darren isn't one to take much interest in the Doctor, or many of his other enthusiasms, and he isn't especially good at remembering things like birthdays, or what shift Vince is on, or even what they had half-planned for Friday night, and he isn't the sort to buy presents, or go out for fancy meals – as if that matters – in fact, if Vince is honest with himself – which he really only is after sex, that being the only time around Darren he can think clearly – they don’t do that much together, don’t have much in common. Except sex.

But that is – bloody magnificent.

By the time he gets back to bed, Darren is asleep. Vince isn't quite sure – still – whether he should stay. At least, he’d like to, he has before, but never without a specific invitation, and, well, he bites his lip, Darren isn't like Simon. All the same, it’s too late to get home easily, it’d risk waking Hazel, and that is never a good idea, so Vince slides carefully into bed. 

And if there’s a tiny part of him that remembers how nice it was to be held by Simon, to – and how embarrassing would it be to confess this – to cuddle – a tiny part of him that wonders if it’s possible to have that as well as this – or more, someone you could be close with, friends with, have a laugh with, someone who would know you, understand you, be honest with you, and shag you thoroughly – well. No-one needs to know.

 

 

 

 

 

Stuart answers the door, looking about as cheerful as usual at this time on a Sunday morning.

He’s been wondering, truth be told, whether giving Vince a key so he can just let himself in, food in hand, would be sensible.

There was a time he’d thought Vince would just – move in – soon enough, this flat being big enough for two, really, two who aren’t shy around each other. He’d been meaning to mention it, but then – and it must have been seven, eight months ago, soon after he moved here, he was back at his parents, being stung, he remembers, for a couple of hundred for – oh some fucking thing or other – and his mother, what was it she said,

“There, you’re a good boy, don’t know how we’d manage these days with your father down to the pension if you weren’t there to help. That Vince looking after his mother is he? You make sure he is, nice lad, but a bit – slow – sometimes, and of course poor Hazel – she’d need the money – “

and he realised, for the first time, that perhaps Vince has been ignoring his increasingly obvious hints about moving in for a reason. Perhaps he thinks he can’t afford it and keep paying Hazel the money to help with the mortgage, or whatever it is – perhaps he hasn’t understood he doesn’t have to help with the cost of this place.

Perhaps Hazel wouldn’t take the money if he didn’t still live there.

Mind, now there’s this bloody Darren on the scene – another boyfriend – what is it with you, Vince? – just shag them and throw them out, you don’t have to spend time with them dressed – not having that. Fucks sake, imagine seeing that at breakfast, getting an earful of that day and night.

Vince, shagging some tosser like that. 

Vince, over and over again with one bloke.

Not natural, not at all.

All this fucking boyfriend shit.

And Stuart scowls as he opens the door.

“Oh, right,” Vince backs off, not sure he has the energy for the rant that looks all too likely to be heading his way, “thought we said lunch today like usual, didn’t know – blimey, were you out later than usual last night, or what – Stuart, have you been buying from that Anita again? Alright, I’ll just go, shall I, daresay Hazel can eat some of this, heat it up tomorrow –“

Stuart shrugs,

“Might as well come in, seeing as you’re here now,” he says, and leads the way, “What the fuck happened to you last night?”

Turns as he opens the door to the flat, smiles inside at the blush, and then the smile fades – not that it ever made it to his lips – as Vince twitters on,

“Yeah, right, sorry about that. Only Darren – I was right outside, actually, but – what are the chances of it – he was walking down the Street, saw me, and – well, you know,” pauses, “decided we might as well just go back to his. No point hanging about, not that I mean – seeing you – well, didn’t think you’d be bothered, Saturday night, thought you’d be copping off soon enough, and Darren – well. I’m sorry. I just – you know how it is,” he has the grace to look down, even as he is busying himself finding plates, serving curry, rice, nan bread, sides, “I can’t – I don’t think straight,” hears himself and flushes, “yeah, right, don’t think at all – when he wants – when I see him – “ he shrugs.

Wonders why he is trying to justify himself to Stuart, the expert in pissing off for a shag, leaving your mate standing around.

Wonders why Stuart is being so grumpy.

“So – who did you end up with, anyone nice?”

Stuart takes his plate, shrugs, walks over to the sofa,

“Beer’s in the fridge,” points the remote at the television, “didn’t bother bringing anyone back, settled for a suck out the back. Dunno, just wasn’t in the mood.”

Missed you.

Fucked if I’m going to say it though.

Vince puts his plate down, gets two beers out of the fridge, looks at them for a minute, then grabs a couple more,

“You alright? Sickening?”

“Fuck off. Been a busy week, that’s all. Things going well with Darren then?” and it’s like talking through a mouthful of glass, it hurts, fuck knows why.

Vince shrugs, staring at the screen,

“Kind of. It’s not – what the fuck is this we’re watching anyway – it’s not – I can’t see us moving in together, but – fantastic shag. Amazing.”

Stuart laughs.

“This is – fucked if I know – you left it last week. Some of your robot shit – come on then, tell. What’s he do that’s so good?”

And Vince stutters, and blushes, and everything is back to normal. 

Vince is a twat, Stuart is lovely, all is right with the world.

 

 

 

 

“So, we going to this party Saturday – whose is it? No, don’t bother, it doesn’t matter. No, really, I don’t have time Vince. Just tell me when and where.”

Vince bites his lip for a second, reminds himself that it doesn’t matter, that Darren is in a hurry, that it isn't important how he knows Pete, why they are asked to his party, that not meeting tonight or tomorrow, as they apparently aren’t, isn't anything to worry about.

Instead, he gives the address, the time, suggests meeting first, eating or something, and flushes when Darren grins,

“Something sounds good. Yeah, alright, come round here then, ‘bout seven, I’ll be home by then,” Darren turns away, grabbing folders, papers, shoving them into his briefcase, “You know who else is going? Stuart be there? Or Danny?”

Vince watches him, already thinking about his day, and wonders what it’s like to have the kind of job where you are actually quite excited to be going to work,

“Seven, ok, yeah, could do. Um, I don’t know, probably, you know what Stuart’s like for a party. Thought you couldn’t stand him though, you wind him up all the time – you had a right go at him the other day – I’m not starting, I don’t care – you’re right, he is a twat, but – anyway, right, tomorrow – yeah, of course Danny – him and Pete – I think they’re talking about moving in together, you know? Jason, Harvey, Paul – usual lot, why? Does it matter?”

Darren shrugs, gestures to hurry Vince up, and Vince finds himself grabbing his coat, his bag, out the door with no real answer,

“Just wondered, that’s all. Is it take a bottle, or what? Birthday isn't it? You get him something, he’s your friend, I’ll give you a – oh, tell you what, here’s a tenner, that should cover it, I know you’re skint again. Go on, now, your bus’ll be along soon, see you Saturday night,” and he’s clicking the central locking on the car, throwing his case onto the seat, in, door slammed, and he’s gone.

Vince watches the red Mondeo and tells himself the tenner is thoughtful, that knowing his bus times shows Darren cares, that he doesn’t want to kiss goodbye in this street anyway.

That he didn’t want breakfast.

Shoves the tenner into his pocket, starts walking towards the stop.

Sighs when he looks at the timetable, realises he has a twenty minute wait. 

Sits, wishes there was a way of contacting Stuart. He hasn’t seen him for four days and he has two nights free now – might be nice to go for a drink. But he can’t phone him until he gets into work, and not even then if Fletcher is around. Might be chance at lunchtime, if he’s lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What’s that, what’s who done now?” Hazel’s only half listening, doesn’t take in that it’s serious, “Stuart? Oh, makes us another cup while you’re talking, love,” cigarette wagging, hand waving the mug at Vince, other hand holding the cracker in place.

He takes the mug, glad, actually, of an excuse to turn away, not to look at her, not to have to see her face as he says it,

“Same as usual. Go to a party, he’s always the same, turns up late, hasn’t been there ten bloody minutes and he’s getting his cock sucked in the kitchen,” and that’s a bit more information than Hazel was expecting, but she’s made it a rule, never look surprised, never be shocked, never ever let him think you don’t want to hear it all, don’t like to think of your little boy out there doing that sort of thing, 

“Well, that’s Stuart. Only interested in one thing, no surprises there. What’s got you so cross this time? Sunday tomorrow, thought you were seeing him then, like usual,” she shrugs, beckons, “hurry up with that coffee, and then you can give us a hand with these. You bring him over in the afternoon, boxes to shift, extra hands’ll be needed. And Darren – where’s your Darren?”

Vince swallows, stares at the rising steam,

“Sucking Stuart’s cock,” I’m not crying, I’m not, boys don’t cry, it doesn’t matter, it’s just the way Stuart is, he didn’t mean anything by it, he wasn’t to know I’d see, hear. Pours the water into the mugs, sugar, milk, hands Hazel hers without meeting her eyes, can’t bear to see the pity in them, turns away again and gazes at the darkness outside the window.

“What, still? Is he always that slow? You’re better off without if he takes that long over it,” and Vince can’t help but laugh, slightly, painfully,

“No, you’re right. God, Mum, things you say. Yes. I suppose they’re back at Stuart’s now, unless they’re at Darren’s, I didn’t stop to ask.”

How could I?

And the scene plays out in Vince’s mind, clear as though the dark window were showing it like a screen. Stuart stood, beautiful as ever, leaning back, hands relaxed, eyes closed, and for a moment, for a moment the sight had only raised the usual, ignorable, envy, longing. Until Vince looked down, recognised the man kneeling, was forced to see what he knew already from the sounds.

Stuart’s hands clenching, hips moving urgently, silently gasping.

Vince knowing he should turn away, not able to, and not knowing which infidelity hurt the most.

Seeing Darren swallow, draw back a little, stand, hearing Stuart speak, breathless,

“Good boy, fuck, yes, and you – you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?”

And then the words, the words that made this not just – oh, Stuart, behave – but the worst betrayal.

“So would you be, two months of fucking Vanilla Vince with his bloody obsession with missionary – with kissing – fuck, come on, show me, show me that famed recovery time, take me home and fuck me.”

Stuart laughing, “yeah, I might, I just might at that,” giggling manically, “have to be a taxi, car-keys are in his pocket already,” 

Suppose I should be grateful he didn’t expect me to drive them.

“Come on then, plenty of them down on the corner this time of night. I knew it, knew tonight was it, knew you’d be up for it, eager after all these weeks.”

Understanding then that this wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment party-shag, this was planned. That the flirting, teasing, needling, has meant something all this time.

“I thought he was too good to be true,” Vince says now, slowly, “all that – looks, charm – all those blokes wanting him – and he wanted me, or seemed to – he did, didn’t he?” tell me I didn’t imagine all of it, tell me I wasn’t a complete fool, please Mum, “should have known. Nothing special about me.”

But his voice is lowered, and Hazel is already in full flow, so busy recalling she doesn’t hear the final words.

Doesn’t bother to explain just how special he is – not that it would help if she did.

 

 

 

“Right, well, thanks for that,” Stuart rolls gracefully off the bed, lands on his feet, feline, and walks effortlessly, displaying all that Darren won’t see again, towards the shower, “I’d offer you a shower before you go, if I was Vince. But I’m not. So sod off.”

Darren is still out of breath, blinking as he listens to the water running. Slowly climbs to his feet, begins tracking down clothes. Dressed, he walks to the open door, leans into the steam,

“When can I see you again?” 

Silence.

“Stuart? When can I see you again? Tomorrow? Get a takeaway, watch a film?”

The water shuts off, and Stuart, glorious and unconcerned, steps out, towels at his hair, looks at Darren,

“You’ll see me around. Can’t miss me. But tomorrow – takeaway – film – fuck off. I don’t do boyfriends. And I’ve had you – what makes you think I want to even talk to you again?”

Darren doesn’t understand.

“But – you – we – this – I thought –“

Stuart shrugs,

“Like I give a fuck what you thought. Just fuck off. I’ll be spending tomorrow with my friend. Now – out.”

After Darren has slammed resentfully out, Stuart stares at the phone for a long while. But Vince won’t speak to him tonight.

Wait and see.

If he turns up tomorrow – as usual – with lunch – lunch for two, not three – then no need to mention any of it.

If not – well – if not – give it a day or two, he will.

Never apologise, never explain.

He’ll have dumped the boyfriend, that’s for sure. 

Stuart pours himself a glass of the whiskey he’s training himself to drink neat, fits with his idea of himself. Throws it back, and winces, as there’s no-one to see.

Makes a face at the bottle, puts it away. Hesitates a moment, then takes a gulp or two of vodka. 

Smiles. Walks to the bed, bottle in hand.

Drinks.

 

 

 

The buzzer wakes him, and for a moment as he sits up, forgetting the night before, he reacts as he normally does on a Sunday morning.

“Fucks sake Vince. Fuck off, just fuck off, too fucking early for this, what was I drinking last night, why didn’t you stop me?”

Remembers.

Stands, pulls on pants, and walks to the door.

By the time he opens it, Vince is stood outside,

“I met your neighbour, Patsy, she let me in, ever so nice, isn't she? Taking her dog out for a walk – there’s a thing, dogs, every morning, can you imagine it, have to take them out, morning and night – god, it’d never stop – catch me getting one, that kind of responsibility, who’d want it? –“

Stuart shakes his head, and turns away, letting Vince twitter on, heads to the bathroom. Strips, pisses, showers, wraps a towel around his waist, and rubs at his hair as he walks back through the open door.

Vince gestures towards the plates and glasses on the coffee table,

“Brought juice, thought you might not fancy alcohol – might be a bit – fragile. ‘Cos you must have been really, really pissed last night – with you thinking Darren is such a complete dick an’ all –“

Stuart shrugs,

“And why would I need to be pissed to fancy a dick?”

Vince makes that face, the face Stuart hates most, the mutinous scowl, the I-am-so-close-to-walking-away face.

But only for a moment.

Then he grins,

“Yeah, right. All the same. Peter’s kitchen? Really? That’s a new low, even for you, Stuart.”

Stuart grins back,

“He wasn’t bad,” he says, and watches as Vince turns away, “you seeing him later?”

“Fuck off,” and Vince moves over to the telly, “forgot to say, I found this tape, got hidden down the back of the sofa, can’t think how, mum had no idea how it got there – not sure you’ve seen these ones – they’re not the first cybermen, but, well, it’s all about their culture – and it’s got the cute one with the kilt in – they’re really good, I’ve been looking everywhere for this, I knew I had it – “

Stuart sighs. Yes.

He knew Vince had it too.

Vince presses play, scuttles back to the sofa, sits down, reaches for his plate and as the music starts says,

“I might move out, you know. Give Hazel a bit of space. Could probably afford somewhere alright these days – not like this, but alright.”

Stuart nods, satisfied. About to speak, but then Vince goes on,

“Seen a flat, looked round it the other day, actually. Could buy it. Over in Fallowfield. I’d like that, space of my own, all my tapes an’ that.”

Stuart opens his mouth.

“Be nice to be able to take blokes home.”

Stuart shuts his mouth.

“And no flatmates. Don’t want to be hearing someone else, nights I don’t get a shag. On the bus route for work, too.”

Stuart forks food into his mouth, trying to think.

“Ssh now, this is good.”

And Vince leans forward, engrossed.

Stuart watches him.

Relaxed, happy, single.

Job well done. 

Sometimes Vince has to be saved from himself and all this boyfriend shit.

 

 

.


	3. ".....He Stole All Your Money."

Stuart is doing his hair, getting ready to go out, so he isn't paying attention at first as Vince, seemingly idly, flicks through a magazine.

Stops on a page.

“You do this?” he asks, and then, hardly even pausing for breath, “you like this? Ever? Only – only – they always make it out to be really hot, but – the idea is, right, but – “

Stuart watches the reflection, watches the blush spread, waits.

“It’s just – does everyone do it – really – I mean – oh my God, forget it. Forget I said anything.”

Waits.

“Only – it’s just – I don’t – I suppose it just takes getting used to, like.”

Waits.

But there aren’t any more words. Watches the blush a bit more, because, in all honesty, that blush is something pretty special.

Sniffs, slowly stretches, 

“Well, I’d have to be able to see what it is you’re talking about,” he drawls, “but probably. You know me, I do most things. Better than most, an’ all.”

Walks, carefully, knowing he has an audience, the best audience, over to where Vince is sitting, leans down, enjoying the slight tension, the flinch, looks at the page.

“Yeah, I’ve done that. When this bloke wanted to – dirty bugger – fuck, what was his name? I don’t know – Jim? Could be. James? Jason? Maybe. Couldn’t get enough of it,” Stuart smiles, remembering, “and that sort – wanting what they don’t often get – he was so fucking grateful. Marvellous. Don’t see it myself, but – harmless. Mind, if he’d been wanting me to let him – well, that’d be too kinky. Not into kinky.”

Looks sideways, carefully. 

Vince swallows, 

“So – it’s only kinky when they’re doing it, not when you are?”

Stuart shrugs.

“Harmless though. You reckon? No harm in it? You’d do it? You – it isn't – I mean – it doesn’t – “ Vince stops.

Oh sweet Jesus. Mary Mother of God, no.

You twat, Vince. You utter twat.

Feels his hands clench in anger. Keeps them hidden, makes himself breathe, slow, calm, find the right words.

“It’s kinky when you do something you don’t like, really don’t like, don’t want. Nothing’s harmful if you both like it.”

Walks away.

“Come on, we’ll be late. Making me hang about, God, Vince, you are such a twat.”

 

 

 

 

Sunday, Vince has brought food, they’ve eaten, watched the match, laughed, talked about nothing particular, television still on, when Stuart has to go back to it, can’t leave the thought alone.

“You been doing that – with Dominic?”

Vince rolls away, starts tidying up,

“God, look at this lot, better put it in the bin, it’ll stink the place out otherwise, what day’s your cleaner coming this week – “

“Vince – Vince, fucks sake – have you done stuff you don’t like?”

“You going to eat these? Could put this in the fridge, be alright tomorrow, day after maybe?”

“Vince – “

He stops in the kitchen doorway, back to Stuart, 

“Yes, alright? He’s my boyfriend, that’s how it works, you try stuff someone likes if you’re going out with him.”

Waits.

“And it was – ok. Well. He liked it. Likes it. Sometimes. It’s fine.”

Waits some more.

“He’s my boyfriend, Stuart. It – sometimes it isn't about what I want. If it makes him happy. Not like I’m such a great catch, is it?”

Doesn’t know what to say.

Vince walks into the kitchen, and he hears the fridge door open, close, the bin rustle.

Sits there, trying to find words.

You’re fantastic, Vince, completely fantastic. How can you think like that? 

But he can’t say that. He can’t. Vince would – well, he doesn’t know what Vince would do – but Stuart Alan Jones doesn’t say that kind of thing. Not to anyone. 

Vince comes out of the kitchen, and Stuart can’t look at him. Brings his hand up to his mouth, chewing on his nail, listening to Vince fossicking about, like Vince does.

“Got this, saw it on the specials shelf the other day, you want to watch it? – I mean, I know it’s a bit crap, but – it was only a fiver. Videos, you know, they’re all cheap now, it’s brilliant, ‘cos of these new d-v-whatsits – s’pose you’ll be getting one of them soon – but anyway – I know, it’s shit – but – d’you remember we went to see this when it was first out?” sighs, because Stuart isn't listening, “you liked the bit where they almost shag – God, d’you remember, there’s that bit with the beer – and that woman screeching ‘ooh’ like it was the worst thing she’d ever – well. Anyway. Brought ‘Genesis of the Daleks’ over as well, ‘case you’d rather that, like you said the other day – “

Stuart shrugs, absently, 

“What bit with the beer? I don’t care, Vince, whatever. Both, if you like,” and lets himself watch Vince walk over to the tv, bend, put something in, pick up the remote. Looks away as he comes back to the sofa.

Lets the music start, the opening scene play out.

“What the fuck d’you mean – it isn't about what you want? If he’s your boyfriend? Why isn't it about what you want?”

Wonders if Vince hasn’t heard him.

Then, slowly, half-gesturing at the screen, staring into the late-afternoon gloom, Vince tries to explain a foreign land to a man who hasn’t even seen a map.

“He – if I – he says he loves me. So – I have to – it’s just the way it is. You do what the other man likes. Only – well – I don’t really – I mean – “ he stops, licks his lips, “don’t worry about it. I just wondered. It’s fine.”

They watch the film in silence.

For some reason, Stuart finds himself agreeing to the bloody Daleks as well, though he doesn’t stay awake.

Best way to sleep, if he’s honest, warm, propped against Vince, his voice muttering quietly in the background.

And Stuart is honest. He’s many things, but he isn't a liar.

Unlike some.

 

 

 

 

“I can’t – I just can’t tonight,” Stuart glares at the phone, taps his pen on the desk impatiently, “I’m sorry alright? It’s – I can’t – it’s only the 20th today – next Friday I could – but it’s tonight. I know, I know. I’m sorry, Stuart.”

“I’ll pay,” hates having to say it, it shouldn’t need saying, adds the face-saving lie, “you can pay me back. Come on. You’ll enjoy it.”

Scribbles on the notepad in front of him as he listens to the reply,

“I can’t. Dominic doesn’t like – well – besides he said he wanted to – do other things –tonight. And – and I can’t let him down. And – I just can’t.”

The word ‘Wanker’ joins ‘Coward’, beautiful calligraphy almost masking the spite.

“Tell him to fuck off. Him and his other things,” a thought strikes, and the lack of eye-contact enables him to ask, “you decided you like that now then?”

Can hear Vince’s intake of breath before,

“Fuck off yourself. I told you, it’s not always about that. And I don’t have the money anyway.”

“You had the money for that night away last weekend –“ with bloody Dominic bloody Baxter, Stuart stops himself from adding.

“Yes, and that’s why I don’t now. Paid for Dom an’ all, didn’t I, it being his birthday? ‘Cos that’s what people do.”

Silence, both of them carefully not saying half of it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” cautiously.

“Right,” and Stuart slams down the phone. Looks at the words on his notepad. ‘Bastard, Bastard, NASTY FUCKING BASTARD.’ Taps the pen again. Thinks. 

Stick figure, hanging man.

Stick figure, man with dagger in him.

 

 

 

Stuart’s standing at the bar, waiting for drinks to be poured, when he realises Hazel is next to him, giving him that look.

“And whatever the lady wants,” he adds, watching the lad behind the bar, enjoying his deliberate show.

“So,” Hazel starts, not even acknowledging the drink coming her way, “what’ve you done this time?”

“Me? I haven’t done anything. Why are you having a go at me? Everyone always has a go at me –“

“Like hell you haven’t. There’s my son, wandering round these last two weeks with a look on his face like a slapped arse, and you, out every night – but I’ve not seen you round mine. What’ve you said?”

Stuart shrugs, innocent.

Carefully not informing Hazel of anything she doesn’t want or need to know.

“He really likes this one. Dominic. Hasn’t shagged you, has he? Isn't dull, or whatever it was? Why can’t you just – be nice?”

Stuart looks down at his drink, flirts back up at Hazel,

“I am nice. I’m lovely. You know I’m lovely,” she snorts, and waits, trying his own tricks on him, “I just – this Dominic – you reckon Vince can afford someone like that?”

Hazel frowns, confused,

“He’s alright, earning well, own car, own flat –“

Stuart raises his eyebrows, so, money is all she’s hearing. Very well. That’s the least of it, but still,

“So how come it’s Vince paying for meals, hotels, all of it? But if I say anything he doesn’t want to hear it. He’s your son, Hazel, up to you to look out for him, I’d’ve thought,” sowing the seeds, “Dominic may have money coming in, but he’s slow to part with it.”

Waits.

“Not that Vince can see it. But you know what he’s like, generous, patient, all the rest of it. Could do with a bit more of your cynicism, seems to me.”

Waits, takes his drink and the other,

“Taking candy from a baby, I call it.”

Walks away, confident of success.

 

 

 

 

“And then he just says – leave it, mum, I don’t mind, I really don’t. So what can I do? Not up to me, is it?” Hazel shrugs, “besides, it’s not like Dominic isn't alright.”

Rose nods, yes, Dominic is alright. At least, what she knows is alright, what Hazel’s said. In all honesty, she isn't much interested – she’s only lived here a couple of months, doesn’t remember Vince ever living next door, he’s just Hazel’s grown-up son, pops by often enough, but she doesn’t know him. Not really. And Hazel and all her eccentricities is one thing, Vince may be pleasant enough in himself, but – well – all this. It’s not the sort of thing you really want to think about over coffee, men doing – that. Live and let live, of course, but she doesn’t really want to discuss it.

Still, Hazel’s a good neighbour, so she does her best,

“Must be tricky though, two blokes,” she waves her cigarette vaguely, “I mean, who’s going to pay in a restaurant – not like a normal couple, is it? No rules, like,” pauses again, then, “not something you think about often, but, well – how do they manage all sorts of stuff? Like – I don’t know – if they moved in together, who’d do the cleaning, who’d put the bins out? Funny, you never think about all that.”

She’s only chatting, she doesn’t mean anything by it, Hazel tells herself. Rose is trying to be nice – but somehow that makes the slap in the words sting more. It is normal, she wants to say, it’s normal to my Vince. Damn sight more normal than you and that Jake of yours, shouting the odds half the night, out in the street as often as behind closed doors, and you with three little ones to think about. Best not said, not yet awhile, new neighbour, see how things settle down. 

Could be living nextdoor for twenty years or more.

Best not shout just yet, not when she didn’t mean any harm by it.

Instead, she shrugs again,

“Depends – who’s earning more, who asked who to the date – who notices the dirt, I suppose. Still. I wish that Dominic put his hand in his pocket more often, but what can I do? You wait, twenty years time,” she nods at the toddlers, “you don’t stop worrying. Just can’t do anything any more.”

 

 

 

 

Stuart has given up.

He doesn’t care.

Not his problem.

If Vince is daft enough to still be stuck on the idea of a boyfriend, all that shit, and too much of a twat to notice bloody Dominic bloody Baxter just being out for all he can get – that’s his problem.

Nothing to do with Stuart.

Nothing at all.

Glares at the phone.

Gives in.

Picks it up.

“You still got Tuesday, Wednesday off next week? And Thursday late-shift?

“Right, so, come with me. One of Burton’s fucking Indie bands, Blackpool, think they’ve got a fucking recording deal lined up –

“- of course they fucking haven’t. Because they’re shit, that’s why. Look, do you want two, three nights by the sea, different clubs, bit of a laugh, on expenses, or not?

“I’m not fucking patronising you. I’ve got to go, be hours of hanging about for probably nothing – but I’ve got to go. The car’s going, the room’s there, you might as well be in it with me as not.

“Don’t fuck about. Tell him. You don’t have to fucking ask him. Christ, Vince, just tell him to sod off and get over himself. What’s he thinks going to happen? I’m hardly likely to fucking jump you.

“Fine, fine. Be like that. Trying to do you a favour, that’s all, but fine. Fuck off and play happy families then. Or whatever ‘Dom’ wants to play.”

Slams the phone down.

Glares at it.

Gets up, opens his office door,

“Sandra – I’m doing that Blackpool trip for Burton. Just for a day – one night at most – no, fuck that, I’ll come home, whatever bloody time it ends up. So you can keep the diary full the rest of the week.”

 

 

 

 

Vince comes back to the table, and it’s nice, it is, really nice, to be out, just the two of them, just having a drink, chatting.

“Oh brilliant,” and he supposes he is a bit easily pleased, really, but still – it is nice, so why not be happy, “thanks, you got the next round in.”

Dominic grins,

“Well, strictly speaking, V, that was you. Left your wallet in your jacket again, didn’t you? Knew you wouldn’t mind.”

Vince closes his eyes for a second, it doesn’t matter, of course it doesn’t matter, it isn't a big deal, it’s only money.

But it does.

Too many things recently.

Maybe you can’t have everything he ever dreamed of, maybe sex and friendship, sex and love, don’t mix – but there is more than this. There has to be. 

He saw Simon the other day, Simon Harris, and the conversation was easy, pleasant – pretty much how it always was, to be honest. Pretty much how it would still be between them if they were living together. And if that wasn’t enough – this isn't.

For that matter, Darren is probably still about somewhere, and if he was too proud to put up with being used even for sex like that – he’s too proud for this.

“Yeah,” he says, picks up the pint, drains it, “well, maybe I do mind,” picks up his jacket, checks the pocket as he puts it on, then, impulsively, takes out the wallet, “look. There’s another forty still here. All I’ve got ‘til the end of the month, but – don’t worry – you have it.”

Dominic looks up at him, startled into silence, and for once, for once Vince doesn’t back down, doesn’t acknowledge the little voice inside shouting, screaming at him – if you kick off, he’ll go, that’ll be it, and when was the last time before him that anyone asked you out, when was the last time you even got cruised by someone you fancied, someone who fancied you more than Stuart, someone Stuart hadn’t shagged? 

“You have it, mate,” he says again, “but it’s the last fucking penny you’re getting off me. We’re finished. Done.”

And he walks out.

Barely five hundred yards down the road, and he’s wondering if he’s done the right thing. Shakes his head, because he knows he has, knows it, but – right now – he could do with someone. It’s the kind of moment when you could really do with the sort of best friend who’d be there.

‘Course, Alex is down in London, and he could phone him, he knows he could, and Alex would say all the right things, even though they both know he can no more live by such a creed than he can fly, but – a phonecall isn't quite the same. There’s other friends, ‘course there are, but – more pub-friends, friends for drinking and having a laugh, not the sort of friends you want to spill it all out to. And having finally moved out, he doesn’t want to be the sort of boy who runs back to mum.

Takes out his phone, looks at it still new and exciting, still a novelty, still hardly able to believe it really is as cheap for Stuart to have two on the account as one, dials.

“Hiya. I know you’re away. Just wanted to tell you – before someone else does – I’ll be around Thursday, Friday, well, a bit more again in general. Told Dominic to fuck off – “

Startles to hear the click as the phone is picked up.

“Vince, you twat, what are you doing phoning an empty flat?”

“Stuart?”

“No. I’m the guy robbing him. Of course it’s me, you prat.”

“But – you said you were away?”

“Meeting got fucking cancelled – tomorrow’s – been back about twenty minutes. Not even sorted out a shag yet. Or food. Bring me something, anything, get a taxi, put it on my account.”

Vince hesitates.

“Vince?”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? You alright? What’s he done? Where the fuck are you?”

Vince closes his eyes, because for a moment, for a long moment, that anger is the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard. Stuart is every bit as ready to defend him now as he was ten years ago, more.

But he’s a big boy now, all grown up.

“Nothing. I’m fine. I just – I don’t have any cash, and I’m overdrawn already. I kind of – oh my God, I am such a twat – I kind of threw it at Dominic in a temper and walked out.”

Stuart laughs.

“Just get in a taxi then. I’ll phone for something. You hungry? ‘Course you are. Come over. You can phone Hazel from here if you want to, watch something, stay over. Whatever you want, Vince.”

Except the one thing Vince wants more than anything in the world.

But he’s lived without for so long, what does it matter? Stuart is laughing, Stuart wants him to go over, Stuart is his best mate again.

All’s right in Vince-world.

.


End file.
